


quiver

by leiascully



Series: I Like You Under My Skin [3]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson definitely puts out on the second date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	quiver

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: AUish for the movie, avoiding SPOILERY events  
> A/N: For my best coffeesuperhero, who is the best (obv), even if she keeps trying to drown me with feelings.  
> Disclaimer: _The Avengers_ and all related characters are property of Marvel Studios and Joss Whedon. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

Clint makes an actual effort, getting ready for his date with Phil. He irons his shirt and digs out a blazer. He's not wearing a suit on a damn date, but he picks out his nicest jeans and brushes the dust off his shoes. He shaves carefully and digs out a bottle of cologne Nat gave him once. 

"We're assassins," he'd told her. "People don't need to smell us coming."

"You're an assassin," she'd corrected. "I'm a spy. Sometimes you want a little scent. And besides, you're not _always_ thinking about upwind and downwind. Just keep it, okay? Someday you might go on a date."

"Not really on my horizon," he'd said, but she had just smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

He's glad he kept it, now. And it smells good, too. Nat does take care of him, in her way. 

Clint realizes he's humming to himself and stops. Jesus, he's got it bad. Next thing, he's going to be skipping down the street and greeting Coulson with a bunch of daisies. If they kiss again, his foot will probably kick in the air like some Disney princess.

"Get it together," he tells his reflection, but the face in the mirror just smiles.

New York has a million restaurants. He's glad Coulson is taking charge of this. Clint would pick something that wasn't date-friendly enough, not that he cares if Coulson's mouth tastes like garlic or if they're eating something sloppy and his shirt gets stained. That might turn itself into an opportunity, actually. But he's sure he'd mess it up somehow, considering Coulson seems to have actual discernment. Clint's heard of Momofuku and a few other of the city's finest establishments, but he's sure as hell never eaten there. He can sit on a roof for hours watching a single spot, but he doesn't have the patience for cuisine. He hopes Coulson doesn't enjoy food that's mostly foam and plate. Noodles are one thing. Molecular gastronomy is another. Although at least foam probably doesn't stain.

He looks in the mirror again. Now that he sees the whole outfit, he's not sure about the blazer. And he's not sure about the shirt. And he might need to find another belt. 

He gives up and calls Nat.

"Can it wait?" she says without preamble.

"I have a date tonight," he says.

"Don't move," she tells him, and hangs up.

"You ought to know," she says when he opens the door, "that I was this close to getting Steve to go clubbing. Which means I am this much closer to jumping his bones."

"Did you get Thor to go?" Clint asks.

"Obviously," Nat says. "You can't keep that guy away from a party. Big goofball," she adds, not without affection. 

"He'll talk Rogers around," Clint reassures her.

"Maybe," Nat says. "First he said it was like a battle combined with an orgy, and you've never seen somebody that stacked blush like that, and then he said it reminded him of Asgard, so that gives you some idea of what demigods do with their time. You need another belt."

"I know," he says.

"Poor thing," she tells him. "Show me your closet."

He follows her into the bedroom - she knows her way around his place by now - and watches her go through his things. He doesn't have a lot of clothes. He's never had a lot of stuff. It comes of traveling with the circus, probably, and then growing up to shoot people. All his life, he's been living lean, packing light, ready to leave at a moment's notice. The heaviest thing he carries with him are his memories. Nat holds up his three belts and squints at them.

"This is it?"

"Yep," he tells her.

"Didn't you get this one in Budapest ten years ago?" she asks incredulously.

"Yep," he says. "Hey, the guy said it was quality leather. Looks like he was sort of right."

She shakes her head. "We're going shopping next weekend." At the look on his face, she smirks. "And if you don't go quietly, I'll ask Tony to come with us. You know how he loves to outfit people. It'll be like Fashionably Straight Eye for the Clueless Queer Guy Who Kind Of Hates Sleeves."

"Please, please, please," he says, catching her in his arms. "If you love me at all, you won't even say that. And I have an excuse for the sleeves thing. Buttons catch my bowstring."

"Saturday?" she asks.

He groans. "Fine."

"If you try to back out of this, I'll hurt you," she tells him.

"I know," he says. She unbuckles his belt and whips it away, then deftly threads her choice through the loops. 

"Better," she says. 

"What about the rest?" he asks.

"Well, there's nothing you can do about the face," she says, squinting at him, "but other than that, you're good to go."

"Thanks," he says. "You're a real pal."

"I know," she says cheerfully. "You're gonna call me the second you get home, right?"

"If I get home," he says, grinning. 

She gives him a high five. "So do I know the lucky mark?"

"Uh, yeah." Clint ducks his head. "It's, uh. Coulson."

"Coulson," Nat says. He nods his head. "Agent Coulson? Phil Coulson, supernanny to the Avengers? Phil Coulson, the guy who thinks humor is more alien than actual extraterrestrial aliens?"

"He's actually pretty funny," Clint says. "When you get to know him."

"I'm just giving you shit," Nat tells him with a withering look. "It's about fucking time, Clinton. You've been secretly pining for him for what, five years? Six?"

"Shut up," he says. "I hid it really well."

"Yeah," she says skeptically. "Nobody knew. Idiot." She punches his arm in a friendly way. "Good for you. I bet that stone face hides a heart of gold. And those suit trousers..."

"Yeah, thanks," he says hurriedly. "I'd prefer you didn't speculate on that."

"I'm sure you'll know soon enough," she smirks. 

"We'll see," Clint says. "He's a little bit old-fashioned."

"So are you, idiot," she says. "An armory any marksman would dream of and you're still using a bow. Talk about behind the times."

He thinks about that for a second. "Good point."

"You'll be fine," she says. "I think you're the only one who didn't know it was mutual pining. Those aviators can't hide everything." She pauses. "He's a lucky guy. You clean up good. Now go knock him off his feet. You need to get laid."

"Thanks," he says dryly. "You're the best."

"I know," she says. 

He lets her out and checks his phone. Coulson has texted directions to his place. It's a surprise and not a surprise to find out he doesn't live at headquarters with the rest of them. Coulson's married to his work, but he's smart enough to put a little distance between himself and his divas. It's only a couple of minutes away, though. Clint walks. He's nervous. Moving calms him. It's a little warm for a blazer, but not bad. He'd rather be overdressed than look like an idiot with no manners. 

He buzzes Coulson's apartment. "Hey. It's me."

"Come on up," Coulson says easily, and the door clicks open. Clint takes the stairs, though the place has an elevator. Coulson opens the door wearing jeans that fit him perfectly and his sleeves are rolled up just right on his arms - and who knew he had arms like that - and Clint stands there for a second, taking him in. 

"Coming in?" Coulson teases, and Clint can't believe that anyone could ever find him humorless or blank. Coulson's nuanced, that's all. And damn, can he dress himself.

"I've never seen you in jeans," Clint says, his mouth dry.

"I know," Coulson says. "I thought it might make this whole ritual a little less stressful. It's possible I overestimated the effects of my denim on your delicate sensibilities." He tips his head to the side and reaches out to touch the backs of his fingers to Clint's forehead. "You do feel a little warm."

"It's warm outside," Clint says, sounding like an idiot to his own ears. "And I'm wearing this blazer." _Get it together, Barton_ , he tells himself fiercely. Coulson smiles and nods toward the inside of the apartment. Clint steps past him and Coulson closes the door. It's a nice little place, cozy and well-furnished. The furniture looks stylish and comfortable at the same time. It's exquisitely clean and all of Coulson's possessions look well-crafted and well-cared for.

"You look nice," Coulson says. He breathes in. "You smell nice, too. Natasha's contribution?"

"You've known me too long," Clint complains. "I'll never be able to get away with anything."

Coulson slides an arm around his waist and leans in for a kiss. If Clint wasn't too warm before, he definitely is now. He leans against Coulson, who presses right back against him, and Clint has a pretty good idea about what those suit trousers were hiding at this point. He's a little breathless when Coulson releases him. 

"There's still time for us to get to know each other better," Coulson tells him. "I might even let you get away with something from time to time. Don't tell me you don't like being handled."

"Ah," Clint says. "Well. As long as I get to handle you too."

"I'm looking forward to it," Coulson promises. "Dinner first."

"Where are we going?" 

"Sushi," Coulson says. "You like sushi. I like sushi. Not too heavy."

"Is it a nice place?" Clint asks.

"Kind of a hole in the wall," Coulson tells him. "But good. Really good." He smiles at Clint. "Real food. Nothing too fancy."

"Good," Clint says without thinking.

Coulson's smile broadens. "Trust me, Barton, I want to make this as relaxed an experience as possible. I know how wound up you can get. This shouldn't make either one of us anxious."

"Seriously, you've known me too long," Clint tells him. "You know every single thing about me, apparently, and I know...significantly less than you do."

"It's been my job to know every single thing about you," Coulson tells him. "Don't worry about it. I'm a professional non-entity. I basically don't exist. There are people who legitimately think that 'Agent' is my given name. Tony Stark is one of them."

Clint sighs. "I'm not that out of it, but I ought to know more."

"You will," Coulson says in a cheerful tone, leaning against his nice shiny counter and crossing his arms.

"Mmph," Clint says involuntarily.

"You're cute when you're tongue-tied, Barton," Coulson tells him.

"You might as well call me by my first name," Clint grumbles. 

"Likewise," Coulson - Phil - tells him. 

"I'm still gonna call you 'boss' once in a while," Clint says. "But only because it's hot."

"I have absolutely no objection to that," Phil says. "Let's go eat."

The restaurant is a nice hole in the wall, predictably. Everything Phil likes is nice, which makes Clint feel a little better about himself, though he leaves the blazer on as they drink beer and make small talk. He takes it off when the food arrives, because knowing him he'll drag his cuff through the wasabi. He's really just not used to all these long loose sleeves. But he manages to mix wasabi into his soy sauce without spilling any and everything's deliciously fresh. 

They talk about baseball. They talk about work, a little, because neither of them have had much in their lives but work in a long time. They talk about movies and make idle plans to go see something one of these days, though they both know if they so much as mention it at work, Tony will have it shown in the Stark Towers cinema and make everybody come on pain of Pepper's disappointment. Nobody wants to disappoint Pepper, and the popcorn is really good, but Clint will forego being able to drink in the theater for the thrill of holding Phil's hand in the dark surrounded by strangers. It's just not the same among friends.

Phil knows a great little place to get gelato, so they walk the few blocks in the mild air. Gold light slants around them - bad for visibility, thinks Clint, but good for romance - and they let their hands brush against each other as they stroll. Clint is glad for his blazer in the chill of the gelato place, but Phil doesn't seem to mind. He just tucks his fingers in the pockets of his jeans, a few goosebumps on those nice forearms. Clint wonders what he could do to soothe the goosebumps away, or even better, to bring them up everywhere else. He orders lemon thyme gelato, figuring the oddness of it will cool him down, and Phil gets bergamot, which makes for a nice mixture of flavors when they get back to Phil's apartment and Clint sets down his little cup and his plastic spoon and kisses Phil.

It's a nice kiss. It's a very nice kiss. Their lips are cold from the gelato but they warm up fast, and Phil's mouth is citrusy-sweet and his tongue is just the right amount of rough and Clint is melting against him. Phil's fingers curl around Clint's wrists, holding their arms down by their sides, but it only makes Clint concentrate more on the heat and pressure of Phil's mouth.

"Let's take it slow," Phil whispers, his words at odds with his hands as he slides off Clint's jacket.

"I guess we have been all along," Clint says. 

"I've been thinking about this a long time," Phil says, pressing a kiss to the joint of Clint's jaw. "I don't want it to be over faster than the gelato melted."

Clint shivers as his thighs brush Phil's. "Don't worry. I'm a patient man."

"Good," Phil tells him. "You're going to need to be." He leans in for another kiss and then releases Clint. "Come on. Shoes off first, though."

Clint leaves his shoes at the door next to Phil's and follows him to the bedroom, which seems at odds with Phil's previous statements, but Phil ignores the large, gratuitously plush and impeccably made-up bed and opens the closet instead. He gestures to a stack of jeans, all dark and all neatly folded. "See? I told you I owned non-suits."

Clint touches the shoulders of the twelve black suits hung tidily next to the rack of jeans. "Sure. But you have more suits than you have jeans, and that's just not normal, boss."

"What about our lives is normal?" Phil asks with irony in his voice. 

"Fair point," Clint says. He goes to Phil's dresser and opens each drawer: boxer-briefs (folded), t-shirts (folded, mostly plain white), pajama pants and sweatpants sharing a drawer (folded), sweaters (folded with cedar blocks), and socks (matched and folded). "This is above and beyond, though. Do your socks not ever go missing?"

"Safety pins," Phil says, and closes the drawer pointedly. "That wasn't really the point of this exercise. I was trying to show you that I'm not always inscrutable."

"Despite the fact that I know what it means, using the word 'inscrutable' isn't exactly helping your case," Clint teases.

Phil sighs. "I was trying to be more subtle about this, but can we just go make out on the couch?"

"All you had to do was say it, boss," Clint says, slinging his arms around Phil's waist and walking backwards, hauling Phil all the way to the couch. He steals a few kisses on the way. All of this is surprisingly natural. It's easy to kiss Phil. It's easy to pull Phil down on top of him on the couch and cup Phil's head in his hands. It's easy to shove his hips against Phil's when his phone buzzes in his pocket, giving them both a pleasant little shock. Phil fishes in Clint's pocket and pulls the phone out and that's easy too, and a nice surprise. 

"Natasha says she hopes things are going well," Phil says, sounding amused. "Do you want to reply?"

"She'll figure it out," Clint tells him, and pulls Phil back down. 

God, he hasn't felt this way since he was a teenager. Taking it slow was a good idea. The more he kisses Phil, the more he wants to kiss Phil, but keeping it all above the waist - above the shoulders, even - lets the anticipation build and build to that dizzy-dangerous delight. Phil's fingers feel amazing in his short hair and kneading the tight muscles of his neck and tracing the lines of his ear and jaw. Clint himself is enjoying the texture of Phil's skin under his fingertips and the forward, knowing way Phil kisses. He groans a little and Phil kisses him harder.

It's intimidating and arousing to know that Phil has been studying him for years, but Clint isn't without his own powers of observation. He's not Hawkeye for nothing. It's easy to tell that Phil likes it when Clint makes noise. Clint can definitely do more of that. Phil's got a sensitive place right under his earlobe; when Clint caresses it with his thumb, Phil shivers. Clint memorizes every reaction and every stimulus that produces it. God, he's had dates with men whose names he can't even remember now, but he's absolutely sure that he'll remember for the rest of his life the way that Phil Coulson's brow wrinkles when he's kissing very seriously. 

Phil is kissing Clint's neck now, and Clint's finding it hard _not_ to make noise, or at least, not too much noise, because at this point he's distracting even himself from the very important task of trying to undo Phil's top few buttons. 

"Take it easy, Barton," Phil murmurs into the hollow of Clint's neck, and fuck if he isn't going to remember that tone of voice every single time Phil's in his ear on a mission. He'd better not fuck this one up.

"Just giving you a little air," Clint says. He traces the neckline of Phil's undershirt. "Not like you're even close to naked yet."

"All in good time," Phil promises. Clint contents himself with stroking Phil's back, digging his knuckles into the hard muscles there while Phil grunts with pleasure and keeps kissing Clint's neck. He's gentle about it at first, but as Clint puts more pressure into the massage, Phil's kisses get rougher too, nippier and more forceful, until Clint's certain he's going to have hickies in the morning, and Nat's going to have a field day. It's worth it, though, every bit. 

Phil eases back up to kiss Clint's mouth and Clint sighs in relief and thrusts his tongue against Phil's, pushy and competitive. Phil's on top, so he's got the upper hand for now, but Clint shoves his hips against Phil's to remind him that that could change at any time. Phil pushes back and they both groan.

"Easy," Phil says, but now he's unbuttoning Clint's shirt, so Clint returns the favor. He pushes back the fabric and strokes Phil's chest through his undershirt. Phil sits up enough that they can both struggle out of their button-downs. He reaches down and cups his hand around Clint's bicep.

"You looked gorgeous all dressed up," he says, "but goddamn, your arms." His voice is low and reverent and Clint would laugh except that the look on Phil's face is so sweet and lustful that it goes straight through him. He doesn't think he's ever had anyone look at him or his body that way. He flexes slowly and Phil squeezes his bicep, his eyes narrowing in anticipation.

"Didn't know you felt that way about my arms," Clint murmurs. 

"And the rest of you," Phil corrects him. "But your fucking arms are pretty fucking incredible."

"You don't swear enough," Clint tells him. "It's pretty fucking hot. You should do it more often."

"Make me," Phil challenges, raising an eyebrow, and Clint grins. 

It's easy, with Phil half-straddling him, to thrust hard enough to push Phil against the back of the couch, and it's easy from there to flip Phil onto his back and press him into the cushions. Clint braces himself up so that his arms and his chest are front and center and dips his head to kiss Phil. The jolt of their lips touching goes all the way from his head to his toes. He's not sure how this keeps getting better and better, but he never wants to stop kissing Phil. Phil runs his hands up and down Clint's arms, his touch greedy and pleased, and his kisses just the same. Clint lets his hips rest heavily against Phil's, pressing until he can feel the button on Phil's jeans grate against his, but he doesn't move except to kiss Phil. The pressure is exquisite, almost overpowering, and it takes a lot of willpower not to just thrust against Phil until they're both gasping and sweaty and on the verge. But Clint's had a lot of practice in controlling himself, and he's not missing the chance to try out that bed. He kisses Phil and stays steady.

It's Phil who moves things along, for all his talk about taking it slow. Clint would guess they've been on the couch for half an hour or better, though his sense of time has gone all fuzzy. That's definitely slow, but he's pretty sure he could spend hours here. He likes Phil's couch and he likes Phil's body underneath his and he likes the way Phil's hands are stroking his chest, and then Phil's hands slide down to tug Clint's t-shirt out of the waistband of his jeans. He slides his palms over Clint's belly and hips, both of them groaning.

"Slow," Clint reminds him.

"It's been slow enough, all these goddamn years," Phil growls. His hands ease over Clint's ribs and his chest, scraping over Clint's nipples, and then he's stroking Clint's back, and even this much skin on skin is amazing. Clint can't get enough of the contrast of the air-conditioned air and the warmth of Phil's hands on him. He kisses Phil with all the frustration of long, lonely nights, for every minute they've ever spent together _not_ doing this. It's funny the way the world falls into place when Phil touches him, everything finally making sense. Phil pulls Clint down onto him and Clint collapses willingly, his hands free now to rumple Phil's shirt up and up and up until it's bunched under Phil's arms and they're finally skin to skin from chest to belly.

"Fuck yes," Phil breathes. 

"Agreed," Clint says. He lets his head rest on Phil's shoulder. He really does feel dizzy now. It's nearly too much, even just this, but in a good way. He's sure as fuck not going to stop now. He's pretty sure he can feel Phil's heartbeat against his own ribs. It only adds to the surreal feeling of how fucking amazing all of this is, and how unexpected.

"Bed," Phil orders.

"Yes, sir," Clint says. He drags his body slowly down Phil's, kissing a line down Phil's belly and pausing to nuzzle at the very firm bulge in Phil's jeans. Phil swears again, sounding dazed, and Clint pushes himself off the couch and gives Phil a hand up. They stumble into the bedroom, stealing kisses, tugging off their undershirts on the way. Phil sits on the edge of the bed and yanks off his socks, and then he snaps his fingers at Clint, who offers his feet one at a time to be desocked. 

"Get those off too," Phil says, and Clint deliberately misinterprets and reaches for the button of Phil's jeans. He pulls until Phil stands up and then he pulls until Phil's hips are hard against his. Their hands fumble with buttons and zippers and more buttons - Nat made Clint buy button fly jeans the last time she took him shopping, and it's complicating the matter now, but eventually they get it all sorted out, and then they're nearly naked, standing and gazing at each other, breathing hard.

"Still with me?" Phil asks.

"Always," Clint promises. 

Phil reaches for him and kisses him hard, maneuvering until they're both on the bed. Clint pushes his thigh between Phil's and strokes Phil all over, trying to get as much of their skin in contact as possible. 

"God, this feels so fucking good," he mumbles, kissing Phil frantically between words.

"Mm," Phil agrees. His arms are strong around Clint, and his legs are firm and muscled, and Clint can't get enough of touching Phil and of Phil touching him, not ever. He feels like he's been underwater half his life and someone just handed him a breathing apparatus. He feels like he did the first time he picked up a bow and something clicked into place as he hefted the weight of it in his hand. He feels like he did the first day he realized he wasn't a complete fuckup and he could be a hero in his own story, or at least more than a shambles. He hopes Phil feels at least half as good as he does.

"I think it's going pretty well so far," he whispers.

"You'll probably get a third date," Phil agrees, sliding his hand into Clint's underwear, and Jesus, if Clint thought things were good before, this is a whole new level of good. It's a new plane of existence. Phil's hand around his cock is quite possibly the most incredible, perfect thing that has ever happened to Clint Barton, and nobody's even brought up blow jobs yet. If Clint can survive this much bliss, the third date's going to have a lot to live up to. He's pretty confident they'll succeed, though. 

He wants to touch Phil. He _has_ to touch Phil. He kisses Phil hard and shoves at Phil's underwear until he can curl his fist around Phil's cock, and then it's all he can do not to try to make Phil come as fast as he can, just for the joy of it. Phil reaches for lube with his free hand and deftly drips a little into each of their palms. Clint spreads the slickness slowly, rubbing his thumb over the head of Phil's cock until Phil grits his teeth and groans into Clint's mouth. 

It's hard to keep it together: it's a confusion of hands and hips and they're both thrusting a little, unable to hold back any longer, and Clint can't stop kissing Phil, he won't stop kissing Phil, even when they're both pushing so hard that their teeth click together. He nips at Phil's lips and Phil smacks Clint's ass with his free hand so that Clint jumps, thrusting into Phil's other hand. At the same time, he's stroking Phil's shaft, pumping a little, trying to take it slow but wanting to watch Phil come, wanting to feel Phil come. It's not something he always likes, but everything about this is different, and fuck if it isn't suddenly his life's goal to make Phil Coulson lose control and come all over his thighs. 

They shove and yield and roll over each other, trying to find the best position, never letting go. Clint honestly can't tell who's groaning louder or who's going to come first. The sweet pressure of Phil's fingers around his cock is almost more than his brain can understand. He's half out of his mind with pleasure, his body not big enough to hold all of it. He's felt pain that conquered his nervous system like this before, but never pleasure. The only thing he can see is Phil's face in front of him and the incredible, desperate, loving look in Phil's eyes. God, he wants to please this man. God, he wants to love this man. And Phil wants him too: he can see it, clear as he sees his arrows speeding on their flight to the target. 

"Come for me, baby," Phil orders, his voice sharp and needy, and bam, the sound of it hits Clint hard, right where it needs to. Clint groans, his body jerking helplessly, and Phil watches him and moans and holds Clint close and thrusts against him. Clint shivers and tightens his grasp, pushing Phil onto his back to get a better angle.

"You're mine now," he says, exhausted but triumphant, glad he finished first so that he can enjoy this moment. "Talk to me, Phil."

"God, I don't know how long I've wanted this," Phil babbles, and hearing him talk without his usual filter is astoundingly charming somehow. "I thought you wanted it too, but you were so focused, and there was Natasha."

" _I_ was so focused?" Clint asks, amused. "Take a look in the mirror sometime, boss."

"You're so fucking amazing," Phil mumbles. "And you're so fucking hot, and you're a fucking superhero, and I'm not any of those things."

"Wrong every time," Clint says, kissing him. His chest aches a little to hear Phil underestimate himself that way. "Wrong wrong wrong. You're the most badass superhero I know."

"Jesus," Phil says, and he tries to look away, but Clint catches his face and kisses him, and then he looks straight into Phil's eyes.

"You are incredible," he tells Phil, pumping his hand faster as Phil thrusts into Clint's fist. "You are the most badass motherfucker I know, and I was pretty sure your balls were gonna be brass when I finally got to touch them. I'm glad they're not - that would be cold. But goddammit, Phil Coulson, don't you ever tell me again that you're not amazing or fucking gorgeous or not a superhero, because I know that's not true. Promise me."

"I promise," Phil groans. 

"Good," Clint says and leans down to kiss him. He can feel Phil shivering under him, thrusting faster and faster, and he slides his tongue against Phil's, a little preview of delights to come. Phil's groans get more and more urgent and that just makes Clint kiss him harder and pump faster, his fingers very slick now. Just hearing Phil sends a little extra spasm through Clint's spent body and he presses his hips closer to Phil's. Phil shouts into Clint's mouth as he comes and they fling their arms around each other, holding on tight. The universe is spinning around them so fast Clint thinks they might fly off the bed, but they cling to each other, sweaty and sticky and so fucking happy it's probably illegal.

"Jesus Christ," Phil says after a while, when their breathing has slowed a little.

"Uh huh," Clint agrees.

"Fuck," Phil says. 

"Yeah," Clint says. "Good thing you put out on the second date. You and your fucking denim."

"I don't think I ever want to move," Phil says, tracing Clint's spine. "On the other hand, if we don't, we will be very sticky in the morning."

"Worth it," Clint mumbles against Phil's shoulder. 

"Come on," Phil says, rolling away, and Clint doesn't know where he found the strength to do it, but he'll be damned if he's letting Phil go anywhere without him right now. Phil lures him into the bathroom. They take an extremely swift shower that's mostly kissing and awestruck touching, because Clint still can't believe he's here with Phil getting to do all of these things and he's pretty sure Phil can't believe it either. But here they are, sluicing off the sweat and sloshing soapy water across each other's thighs. Clint gets water in his ear but he doesn't really care, because he can't really care about anything except how cute Phil's ass is as they towel each other off and how fucking great it's going to be to slide into bed next to Phil between clean sheets. He's going to wake up tomorrow morning next to Phil and then they'll probably get breakfast, because that's the kind of guy Phil is, and how he got so lucky he really isn't sure, but he's not letting go. And he looks at Phil, and Phil smiles like he's thinking all the same things, and this time Clint's chest is aching because only the Grinch's heart can grow two sizes, and all of this happiness can't fit into the heart he's got. But it's a good ache. 

Phil reaches into a drawer and pulls out a toothbrush. The receipt is still stuck to the package and it's got yesterday's date.

"You had high hopes," Clint says, ripping the toothbrush out of the package and sticking it under the faucet.

"I only bet on sure things," Phil says, putting toothpaste on his own toothbrush. 

"I'm glad," Clint says. 

It ought to be awkward, the two of them standing here naked, brushing their teeth in Phil's squeaky-clean bathroom, but it's not. They just keep looking at each other and grinning through the foam. There's no discussion about sides of the bed, or who's going to spoon who - it's all just natural and right, like somehow their bodies worked it out years before their brains did. 

"Sleep tight, boss," Clint murmurs, but Phil, Mister Constant Vigilance himself, is already out, and he's smiling. Clint grins to himself and closes his eyes. His dreams will be sweet tonight, that's for sure, and tomorrow will be even better.


End file.
